Page 71 of The Lipstick Flip

And then, following that, a series of hashtags: #couple #couplegoals #myhusband #lovehim #mylove. A weird noise slipped out of me at the end, and part of me recognized that it wanted to be a laugh, when I saw #trophywife.

The bathroom door opened.

I looked up as Noah stepped out. He was naked, arms folded against the cold, and he started to smile at me. Then the smile died. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“What is this?” I asked and held out my phone.

“What is what?”

“This.”

He came closer, and his face flickered when he was close enough to see the screen. The uncertainty—the concern—disappeared. In its place came the old, familiar fight-me look. “I posted that last night. Why?” And I could hear the challenge in his voice when he said, “What’s wrong with it?”

“You know what’s wrong with it.” I got to my feet. I found a pair of joggers. I pulled them on.

Noah was frozen for a moment. Then he broke into motion too—stepping over to pull on his underwear. His cheeks were red, but he had goose bumps up his arms and across his shoulders. “No,” he said. “I don’t. What’s the problem?”

I made a sound that was kind of like a laugh and shook my head.

“I’m proud of you,” Noah said as he pulled on his pants. “I think it was a nice post.”

“Oh yeah.” I grabbed a sweatshirt. “I know you do.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Howie. You’re so talented, and people need to know—”

“Don’t do that!” I stabbed a finger at him. The sweatshirt was still hanging from one hand. “Don’t!”

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. His eyes were wet. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

I angled my body away from him. I couldn’t look at him. And I couldn’t stop the words that just kept coming. “You tagged my professional account. God, Noah. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry.” But a moment later, he asked, “But can you just tell me what I did that was so wrong?”

“This!” I held up the phone again. “You tagged my professional account with this!”

“What? You don’t want them to know you’re married? Is that supposed to be some kind of secret?”

“No, it’s not a secret.”

“You don’t want people to know about me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, you’re just furious that I said you were my husband online.”

“It’s my professional account, Noah! Being married has nothing to do with it.”

He was trying to turn his sweater right-side out, and he made a scoffing noise.

“It’s work,” I said. “What don’t you understand about that?” He still didn’t say anything, and that white noise finally reached my head, and I snapped, “I don’t show up at your work, bend you over, and fuck you in front of the patients, do I?”

A rapid series of clicks came from the window. White flurries tapped the glass; it was starting to snow.

“Wow. Real nice, Howie.” He pulled on his sweater. When he spoke again, his voice was like ice, but the red in his cheeks was almost purple now. “I’m sorry. I forgot how embarrassing it is for people to know you’re gay.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“I forgot how awful it is for people to know you have a husband.”